


Letting Go

by dickgrysvn



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Athos loves his brother so much, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e10 Trial and Punishment, Episode: s03e01 Spoils of War, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Light Angst, Missing Scene, athos and aramis feels, good gosh all the hugs, guys I love them, leave your toxic masculinity at the door, physical affection between men, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickgrysvn/pseuds/dickgrysvn
Summary: It’s better for Aramis this way, to not give Porthos more than a passing chance to change his mind. Better for Athos, easier for him to accept his friend’s, his brother’s decision without giving him the opportunity to realize he can’t stomach the idea of Aramis leaving. He knows if he sees him again, he won’t be able to keep quiet, won’t be able to stop himself begging Aramis to stay. Yet, even still, there’s a part of him that hopes Aramis will come by one last time before he leaves Paris. A part of him that hopes his brother will saunter up the stairs and into his apartments, hat in hand, smiling as always.{episode tag to 2x10, 3x01}
Relationships: Aramis | René d’Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t help but notice that in the end of 2x10, Athos is wearing a blue sash around his waist. A very familiar blue sash. I decided then and there that it was in fact Aramis’ sash, and thus these scenes were born. It’s just Athos and Aramis, but Porthos and d’Artagnan are mentioned. I hope you like lots of physical affection, because that cheek kiss KILLED me and I needed more. This is my first fic for this fandom, so I hope you enjoy, and have tissues ready! (All the tissues)

> _Do you know what your fate is_  
>  _And are you trying to shake it_  
>  _You're doing your best and_  
>  _You're best look_  
>  _You're praying that you'll make it_
> 
>   
>  _Well bless my soul_  
>  _You're a lonely soul_  
>  _Cause you wont let go_  
>  _Of anything you hold_
> 
> _Well all I need is the air I breathe_  
>  _And a place to rest my head_
> 
> _Do you think you can find it_
> 
> _Better than you have it?_
> 
> _— Say (All I Need) by OneRepublic_

They’d said their peace. They’d gone their separate ways, he’d watched as Aramis walked away with a determined lilt in his step. He’d not expected to see him again, not for some time. If it were Athos leaving (and _God,_ if he hadn’t thought of that very option so many times in those first few years), it’s what he would’ve preferred. Say your mind, and walk away, not giving any of them the barest chance of changing his mind (because if they would’ve had more than one second to process it, one word to convince him otherwise, he would’ve stayed, by God he would have stayed). No, It’s better for Aramis this way, to not give Porthos more than a passing chance to change his mind. Better for Athos, easier for him to accept his friend’s, his _brother’s_ decision without giving him the opportunity to realize he can’t stomach the idea of Aramis leaving. He knows if he sees him again, he won’t be able to keep quiet, won’t be able to stop himself begging Aramis to stay. Yet, even still, there’s a part of him that hopes Aramis will come by one last time before he leaves Paris. A part of him that hopes his brother will saunter up the stairs and into his apartments, hat in hand, smiling as always. 

So when Aramis does exactly that, two days after he walked away from them, Athos doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. When his door swings open and Aramis saunters in, hat in hand and smiling softly, Athos immediately glances at the goblet of wine sitting in front of him. He’s not drunk. He cannot be, he’s barely had a sip and he’s the highest tolerance of any man in France, or so Porthos says. No, he’s not drunk. Dreaming, perhaps? But his dreams are never this… unreal, never this pleasant. They’re always memories of the past, twisted and darkened by pain and grief and guilt. No, he’s not dreaming, either. Poisoned, then? Some sort of hallucinogen? Did someone slip opiates in his wine? It’s this absurd notion that shocks him back to attention, and he focuses sharply on Aramis, who’s now started shifting slightly on his feet, twisting his hat brim in his hands. Seeing Aramis so unsure, and almost worried, prompts Athos to speak. 

“Aramis. For a moment, I–” he stops, unsure of himself now. Aramis steps forward, a frown creasing his forehead as he glances at the goblet Athos had so studiously glared at for the past minute. Athos stands, moving forward around the desk to meet his friend, waving his worried expression away. “Nevermind,” he continues, “I just… wasn’t expecting to see you again. Not for some time.” Aramis grins now, suddenly understanding. 

“You thought you were drunk!” His voice is soft, but full of humor and laughter, and his eyes dance with teasing. But as Athos reaches him, pulls him in for a hug, he can feel the disbelief and sincerity rolling off of Aramis in waves. He’s making a joke, but somehow, Athos knows Aramis understands that it meant he had been hoping he would come. Athos can’t help it, he slides a hand to the back of Aramis’ neck, holding him as tight as he can for the briefest moment. And then he pulls away, but he can’t bring himself to remove his hand, not yet. He pulls Aramis in again, pressing a kiss to the side of his temple, reminiscent of the moment he’d seen Aramis safe not but two days ago. Aramis nearly sags against him, and Athos wishes he could just hold onto him forever. He feels Aramis’ arms tight round him, and it feels _right._ It feels more right than anything has in his life in a long, long while, and it kills him to pull away, to slowly drop his hand from Aramis’ neck. He steps back, feeling the loss at the lack of contact, and clenches his jaw. Aramis’ eyes are suspiciously shining, and Athos quirks a corner of his lip just enough for Aramis to catch it. He straightens, a look of indignation flashing across his face. “Do not laugh at me, Athos, I swear I will shoot you,” he threatens, pointing a finger in Athos’ face, but he’s laughing, and it feels _right._

“Hmm,” Athos simply hums, relishing in this last moment of normalcy, this last bit of banter with his brother before he leaves. Because Athos knows he will. He can see it in Aramis’ face, the set of his jaw. There’s no changing his mind. So Athos takes a deep breath, and faces the fact head on. “I’m glad you stopped by, Aramis.” He’s pleased to hear how even his voice sounds, relieved his own wavering emotions aren’t betraying him. Aramis sighs, looking down at the hat still clutched in his hand. 

“I… I tried to leave. I wanted to, I wanted to just leave and not make it any harder, but…” he trails off, scuffing one boot toe into the floorboards, and Athos smiles sadly. 

“I know.” It’s quiet, hardly more than a whisper, and Athos isn’t even certain Aramis hears it. The other man rambles in, voice growing stronger with each word. 

“I couldn’t leave without saying a proper goodbye to you, Athos. I can’t bear to see Porthos or d’Artagnan again, I know they’ll just try to convince me to stay. It would be too painful, as much as I wish to see them one last time. But you, somehow I knew you wouldn’t try. I knew you’d let me go,” Aramis finishes, his voice almost disappearing as he says that last sentence. It’s as if his strength dies with those words, and he suddenly slumps down onto the bed. Athos isn’t even aware he’d moved, he was too focused on the words. He makes his way to sit at Aramis’ right side, noting for the first time the lack of the pauldron. It nearly knocks the breath from his lungs as he notices the lack of everything that once made Aramis a musketeer. Gone is his standard doublet, the sword belt, the pistol, the dagger at his back. The only things that remain are the blue sash at his waist, and the hat that he’s still twisting between his fingers. Athos slowly reaches out and pulls it gently away, and Aramis starts suddenly, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it or that Athos had joined him. With the hat gone, he sits up straighter and breathes in deeply. Athos sets the hat on the bed behind him, and when he focuses back on Aramis again, he finds the man untying the blue sash. Athos stares, unsure of what exactly Aramis is playing at. Never once had Athos seen him in his doublet without that sash. He watches silently as Aramis unwraps it carefully, waiting for him to speak again, knowing that he will in his own time. 

It’s another minute before Aramis speaks again. It took him half that to remove the sash from his waist, and the other he just sat quietly and stared at the blue fabric in his hands. Athos waited patiently, and when Aramis speaks, he’s ready. 

“I’ve already given my weapons to Treville, told him to keep them for the armory,” he says quietly, and Athos waits. “I don’t want to bring anything of–of this life with me. I can’t, really. But I can’t bring myself to just… throw them out.” He exhales sharply, shifting slightly on the bed to face Athos better. He holds out the sash, and Athos is stunned to see his hands are shaking slightly. “I want you to have this,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and Athos is speechless. “I just– I need you to take it. Please. Keep it safe for me.” He is whispering now, almost begging, and Athos can’t take it. For the third time in this short visit, he grasps the back of Aramis’ neck and pulls him in, touching their foreheads together. He closes his eyes and breathes, tightening his grip on Aramis. 

“Of course, brother. Of course.” Aramis breathes out a choked sigh of thanks, and Athos feels the threat of tears in the corners of his eyes. He opens them slowly, staring down at the scarf Aramis is holding out for him. Not releasing his grip, he gently takes the scarf in his other hand, wrapping his fist around it and holding tight. Aramis’ hand comes up to grab Athos’ forearm, the one still clasped around the back of his neck, and he squeezes tightly. 

They sit like that for some time, the two of them locked in this moment of peace and brotherhood, neither one wanting to be the one to break it. But break it they must, and eventually Aramis sniffs softly and releases his grip on Athos arm. Athos closes his eyes briefly, slowly releasing his grasp on Aramis’ neck. Before Aramis can pull away completely, however, Athos touches his lips to the other man’s forehead lightly, and Aramis smiles with his eyes closed. 

“You always were rather touchy when there’s no one watching,” he says softly, and Athos snorts, shoving Aramis away with a hand in his hair. Aramis laughs now, bright and full and true, and Athos smiles. There’s a spark back in his eyes, a bit of life there that Athos hasn’t seen since the moment Aramis walked in the door. _He needed this_ , he thinks, _maybe even more than I did_. As if Aramis read his mind, he claps a hand against Athos’ knee and stands up. “Thank you, Athos. God only knows how much I needed that.”

“He seemed to know I needed it, too,” Athos answers softly, and Aramis raises an eyebrow, stunned. “Oh don’t give me that look, Aramis. I may have my doubts sometimes but I’ve seen what faith can do for people. Perhaps I’m not entirely apathetic,” he mumbles, waving a hand lazily. He’s loathe to admit when he might believe in God, but if it will distract Aramis from the dark pit of emotions that first sentence is wont to take them, he’ll admit it readily. It works. Aramis laughs again, and Athos smiles at the sound. He reaches down to grab the hat off the bed, and nearly turns to hand it to Aramis when the man speaks again. 

“Actually, will you give that to d’Artagnan? It’s about time the lad had a hat, you know, and it’s a damn fine hat, if I do say so myself,” he quips, and Athos huffs a laugh. He shakes his head, bemused, and Aramis just smiles. “In all seriousness. Will you give it to him? I want him to have it,” he continues, and Athos looks at him and nods. Aramis claps his hands together, nodding back. “Good! Well, I guess… I guess this is goodbye, then.” Athos smiles softly. 

“So it would seem.” He hesitates, debating whether to pull Aramis into one last hug, when Aramis makes the decision for him. In two strides Aramis is pulling him in tight, arms wrapped around his shoulders and head tucked into the crook of his neck. Athos stiffens slightly, not used to such a hug, but he quickly relaxes into it, once more placing a hand at the back of Aramis’ neck, and the other around his shoulders. But all too soon Aramis is pulling away again, and this time Athos knows it’s the last one. He moves his hand from Aramis’ neck to the side of his face, clapping it slightly before letting go with one last smile. Aramis smiles back, sad but genuine and hopeful, and Athos feels his heart fill with warmth for his brother. Aramis turns and heads for the door, and Athos watches him. Just as he reaches the doorway, Athos calls out softly, “All for one.” Aramis stops, placing a hand on the frame, and takes a deep breath. 

“And one for all.” And then he’s gone, boots tapping down the stairs in a steady pattern, and Athos lets his eyes fall closed for a moment as he listens to his brother leave for the last time. The door downstairs closes, and the sound seems to jolt Athos back to life. He opens his eyes and looks down at the sash still wrapped around his hand, his vision annoyingly watery. He slowly removes his sword and belt, placing them onto the bed next to Aramis— no, d’Artagnan’s new hat. He carefully begins to tie the blue material around his waist, imitating the way Aramis has worn it all these years. When it’s been knotted to his satisfaction, he grabs his sword off the bed and buckles it back on over the sash. Smiling softly down at it, he reaches down to grab the hat off the bed, smoothing over the slightly crumpled edge with his fingers. He stares at it for a moment, and then he forces himself to move. He drains the wine from the abandoned goblet on the table and heads for the door, making his way purposefully down the stairs. He has a present to deliver. 

When they stumble across Aramis in that monastery four years later, Athos knows he’s not drunk, or dreaming, or drugged. He could’ve never dreamed up something like this. He’s certain this time that this is indeed God knowing what they need most, and granting it to them. When they return to Paris, Aramis at their side, it feels _right._ When Athos shows up at Aramis' rooms in the garrison that night, wordlessly holding out a piece of blue fabric, and Aramis bypasses it to pull him in for a bone crushing hug, it feels _right._ And when Aramis walks into the garrison yard the next morning, blue sash around his waist and a familiar hat on his head, smiling at the three of them like an idiot, it just feels _right._


End file.
